Loner
by Verrbo
Summary: Lester has a simple job for Los Santos' Unholiest Trinity - retrieve something valuable for a mysterious European benefactor and protect it from the remains of a disgraced and decimated Liberty City crime family, out for revenge. When has any job been simple, especially when one third of the team is struggling to separate business and pleasure?
1. Chapter 1

_Fuck you, Niko Bellic. _

Since getting the call from Lester almost a week ago, Michael has thought about a lot of things; how he found a few more gray hairs the other day. How much Tracey's first year at ULSA is going to cost him - and that pompous, go-nowhere art history major she's been all too familiar with recently. At the top of the list, though, is a now well-practiced curse against a stranger who has quickly become Pain In The Ass Numero Uno.

"Mike, you 'member that Eastern European guy I was talking about?" Lester had started casually, as though discussing an old friend. "The one who was making moves in Liberty City a few years back?"

"Not particularly," came the slurred response.

"Well, he wants to hire you. Well, not you _specifically_, but I got a feeling you three'll wanna be in on this one."

Michael had peered at the clock on his bedside table then. 2:30 in the goddamn morning.

"Nothing crazy," he tech genius had continued in that same laidback manner that was pissing Michael off for some reason. "Seems like your average retrieval."

Michael was dumbfounded. He'd stared at the ceiling incredulously, pinching the bridge of his nose, a swell of annoyance rising up. "And this 'average retrieval' couldn't have waited until at least 6 hours from now?"

"There's an important number you might want to consider," the other man replied with a mischievous lilt to his voice. Michael had learned to dread it. "One hundred and fifty thousand."

"You're saying you woke me up for less than 35k apiece? Lest-"

"Each," interrupted Lester. "I'm talking 150k _each_."

Michael was fully awake at that point, his mind buzzing with questions, most of which Lester didn't have an answer to, which should have been Michael's first clue that something weird was going on.

The extent of the information to be had was that an untraceable number had contacted Lester directly, which was a rarity in itself considering all of the barriers Lester placed between himself and the outside world. The decidedly non-Eastern-European voice on the other end of the phone had offered Lester over half a million dollars to put a team together, and this team was to track down and collect..._something, _something as yet undefined, from "an old associate" of the client in question, a man named Niko Bellic. A man that Lester identified as having a finger in many a Liberty City pie, most notably as a hired gun for the mob.

Once they had whatever it was that Bellic wanted, they were to hold onto the person carrying it "until further instruction". The most important aspect of the job, the part that Bellic's proxy had stressed the most, was that time was short.

Based on what little information he was able to get out of the stranger over the phone, Lester surmised that Bellic had somehow made enemies of a small-time Liberty City crime family, the Pegorinos. From the sound of it, the Pegorinos were as eager as Bellic to take whatever this "old associate" had, so much so that the family may have already sent men to Los Santos. They had to work quickly, but tracking people was one of Lester's many specialities - once Bellic came through with just a touch more information, Lester would have the target firmly in all of their crosshairs, no sweat.

Lester didn't seem too concerned with the apparent competition, either - "If they were anything to be worried about, the Pegorinos'd be part of the Commission. My guy in Liberty City tells me they were relegated to the kids' table." If Lester, paranoid old Lester, wasn't worried, Michael knew he had no reason to be.

It was all very compelling, the secrecy and the potential to make serious bank - it gave Michael that tingly, heady feeling of adventure. That feeling was what kept him in the business of thievery and bloodshed, after all, moreso than the money or anything else. Of course, there were several things about this particular job that should have made him at least a little nervous, things that he knew weren't going to bother Trevor and wouldn't have fazed a younger version of himself. But it only took him a moment to decide that he was feeling more curious than cautious.

They'd been able to count on Trevor's help right away, of course. Up for anything, as long as it intrigued him, money be damned. Michael supposed that even the cartoonishly, criminally insane have their uses. Frank was a different story, though, but Michael understood. Even after all they'd been through, the kid was still relatively green around the gills. He'd learned to trust Lester, just not unconditionally, not yet.

But Michael's buoyancy slowly waned and eventually turned to exasperation as the days rolled by with no sign of the promised further instructions from Bellic. The contradiction infuriated Michael, the dichotomy between the supposed urgency of the situation and the endless waiting for the go-ahead. It didn't help that he didn't have anything else in the works at the moment, nor that he didn't handle boredom well. If they didn't hurry this up, Trevor would get distracted and fuck off back to whatever hell realm he inhabited, bathing in biker blood to keep him immortal or whatever.

Almost a week to the day since they'd first gotten word of the job, Michael is gnawing his knuckle absentmindedly while mired in lunch rush traffic on the Del Perro. He's cursing that European question mark for making them feel like desperate amateurs all over again when a restricted number lights up his phone. He practically dives for it and struggles to keep the frenzy from reaching his voice.

"Lester, just the man I wanted to talk to. Whaddya got for me?"

Lester gives a little laugh of what sounds like disbelief. "Mike, I've already talked to the other two stooges and they're good to meet. Get over to my place soon as you can. You're gonna wanna see this."

An hour later, the four of them are huddled around one of many screens in Lester's crowded command center, staring at a picture of a woman. Lester received the picture via text that morning, along with a simple message: _Catherine Rowan_. _You have two days._

On the monitor, the unexpectedly young and female target is shown in a covertly-taken photo and can't be much older than Tracey. She's on a crowded street somewhere in the city, but you'd almost be forced to notice her. The brim of her big straw sunhat is pulled down close to her big, startlingly green eyes, like she's trying to keep the world from seeing her as much as possible. Dark, thick lashes frame them in a way that makes her look at once virtuous and diabolical. Those eyes have slain giants of men and known it all the while.

The dark hair that can be seen peeking out from under her hat is gathered into sateen waves that travel to lengths unknown past the shoulders that her floral dress is designed to show off. Her oversized cateye sunglasses (more hiding, Trevor notes) are resting down on the bridge of her straight little nose, past the high, prominent cheekbones, and she's looking over the frames to check her watch with a harmonious expression, the likes of which none of them can recall having ever seen in the mirror. The two red strokes of her plush lips are drawn into a serene hint of a smile. Catherine Rowan certainly does not paint the portrait of a woman being hunted by the mafia.

Trevor thinks she looks too nice, too _normal_, to be wrapped up in whatever plot this Bellic guy's got going on. Her eyes, big green magnets that they are, don't hold any of the jaded but vigilant sharpness he'd expect of someone who supposedly hangs out with European ne're-do-wells. But there is a sharpness there, of a sort. She's not a total innocent, and Trevor's looking forward to finding out why.

He looks over at Michael, who's studying the picture with an intensity that makes Trevor's lips quirk up into a knowing smirk. He knows that Michael is noticing the tiny gold wristwatch on her delicate wrist, worn with the face on the inside. He knows that Michael is thinking this picture could have been a still from one of those classic Vinewood movies he loves. One where the suave rogue woos the sophisticated spy in a fantasy world with no place for the gruesome, merciless killer that lives in a desert trailer park.

Michael clears his throat after a beat of silence, pulling them all back into a dark and dusty reality, and turns to Lester. "So, uh, whaddya got on her, Lest? What's she carrying that's worth half a mil?"

"I can spot at least two things."

"Knock it off, T."

"Mike, in answer to your first question, not much yet," Lester replies with more than a touch of annoyance. "This Rowan girl is an internet nonevent. No LifeInvader, no Bleeter, no nothing. To the general public, she may as well not exist. No results for a reverse image search either."

"What about an alias?"

"Of _course_ I checked for known aliases," Lester bites, shooting Franklin a chastising look and turning back to Michael. "As for your second question, well, that's the most confusing part. I got nothin'. This Bellic guy has been anything but talkative, and his proxy wouldn't give me anything. Or couldn't, I don't know."

Trevor raises his eyebrows, in awe that this well-proportioned little stranger is causing the biggest brain on the west coast this much trouble. He doesn't say anything derisive about it, much as he wants to. Trevor has respect for anyone who can get under Lester's skin.

Lester drums his fingers on the desk and continues, "Clearly Bellic wants something she's got, or has access to. I find it a little hard to believe that she used to run with him, but appearances can be deceiving, I guess."

Lester looks around the room and doesn't expect the varying degrees of hesitation on the faces that look back. He'd thought Michael was the most gung-ho out of all of them, but something has apparently made him think twice, and Lester can't imagine what it is. Even Trevor is quiet, probably contemplating something depraved.

"Look," Lester sighs impatiently behind tented fingers, astounded that he has to convince a bunch of criminals to be criminals. "This Bellic guy means business. He bypassed all the usual obstacles to contact me _directly_, not to mention that we're all at least $30,000 richer if we don't even _take_ the job. May not seem like a lot to you, but I got a few servers that could use an upgrade."

"And Bellic said he'd tell the girl to expect us," Michael offers, mostly to an expectedly sullen Franklin. Lester finds himself scraping the bottom of the barrel for patience. "Lester should be able to dig something up within a few hours. Should be a cinch."

"Nah, man, you can keep that shady-ass money," Franklin says with a short laugh, standing suddenly from his spot where he'd been sitting next to Lester, hands in the air. He moves to the bedroom door and turns back to them, eyes narrow. "I'm out. I ain't worried 'bout L's skills, I'm just out. This shit fishy as hell, how do y'all not see that?"

Lester waves a hand dismissively and pushes his glasses back up as he turns back to his keyboard. The other two just look at each other, and Franklin knows then that they'll just end up doing this without him. He gives a pained sigh. "Look, there's somethin' seriously not right here. I ain't gonna be responsible for deliverin' this chick to some sex trafficking bullshit."

"Part of the deal is that the girl doesn't get hurt," Lester tries. "Why else would he tell us to protect her once we find her?"

"Well, if he can find _us_, why can't he do the same to her, tell her to come to us? Why do we gotta track her down at all?"

Lester mutters under his breath, then says with finality, "It's his prerogative, Franklin. Yours isn't to question, it's to do what you're asked- what you're _paid_. And if you don't wanna get paid, I got no problems divvying up your cut."

Michael just watches, glad he kept his developing misgivings to himself. He's no stranger to combining women and crime, but then, he's never seen anyone that looks like this particular woman.

"C'mon, Frank," Trevor growls, a troublemaker's grin growing on his lips that always makes Franklin highly uncomfortable. "You're already here, aint'cha? That means you're just as curious as the rest of us. Why, you could buy Chop all the treats an' spiked collars he could ever want."

Michael doesn't say anything when Franklin looks at him pleadingly, just raises his eyebrows. A few more moments pass in uneasy silence, nothing to focus on but the hum of countless machines and Trevor fidgeting with the switchblade he keeps in his boot.

"Shit," Franklin sighs, leaning against the doorframe in apparent resignation. He runs a hand over his face and looks and feels older than he is. "_Fuck_. Alright. Just, I don't know, is it too much to ask for a little transparency? And I mean, shit, he can't do any better than a picture and a name?"

"Luckily, I don't need anything more," Lester chuckles deviously. He shoos the others away and stretches out his fingers over the keyboard, eager to get to work. The other three file out of his bedroom and part ways in the street. Trevor is totally on board, which Michael expected - at least he's predictable in one way. Lester's confidence is a big part of why Michael is quickly returning to previous levels of excitement about this job, but he wishes it were true of Franklin. With the time constraints this tight, he and Trevor will absolutely need the kid's full support.

Trevor returns to the Unicorn feeling elevated enough that he refuses the coke and good company offered to him by one of his favorite girls. He leaves her disappointed in the hall and whistles his way back to his office, swinging his keys around on his finger, thinking about Catherine Rowan. He doesn't wonder about her too much, not in any meaningful way, not yet, but he can't help but speculate on how a girl like that got herself into a situation like this. Wanted by the Italian mob, looked after by a Slavic fugitive, pursued by a Canadian mercenary. But Lester was right, appearances can be deceiving. Maybe she will surprise him yet.

That surprise does indeed come, later, when Lester comes through with enough information for them to act on. As Michael predicted, Lester got it done before evening, and he delights in relaying his findings via conference call to his eager teammates.

"She's listed in the Los Santos Department of Corrections database. As an _employee_." The three men on the other end of the call can hear the creak of Lester's computer chair as he sits back, and each can imagine his self-satisfied grin. "I'd be willing to bet she's got something incriminating on Bellic, that's why he needs her hidden away. Something the Pegorinos could use against him."

"Looks like we got us a crooked cop to break, boys," Trevor purrs, his sneer clear in his voice. He swears that the thrill of the hunt, and god, the hunt for a _cop_, is good enough to put him off crank for the rest of his life.

After saying the last of her goodbyes, and having a candid photo taken of her one last pat-down for a laugh, Catherine Rowan stumbles through the heavy metal security door leading out of Pershing Square Correctional Facility and into the heart of Los Santos.

And it's a soggy heart; instead of the usual blazing sunshine, she's dismayed to be greeted with the incredibly rare sensation of rain against her skin. Dismayed because she knows that LS drivers seem to lose all knowledge of how to operate a vehicle when it so much as drizzles. Catherine retreats back beneath the awning, grumbling, and checks her watch. The Elysian is going to be a nightmare anyway, may as well be a wet one. She's half-considering just abandoning her junk on the sidewalk and making a break for it when she hears a familiar voice coming from the entryway behind her.

"Sorry, shoulda warned ya," says kindly old Pete. Catherine turns to smile at him, her unabashed favorite out of the staff she oversaw up until today, as he joins her. He reminds her of her father, but only the good parts. "I forgot your office don't have windows. Hey, you need help with that?"

Pete gestures to the remains of the comically large sheet cake Catherine is awkwardly clutching. At one point, a couple hours ago, it had said "Thanks For 5 Years" before half the prison staff, including the warden, had decimated it. She's trying to balance it in her arms along with her purse and the box containing the last of the stuff from her office.

"Oh, Petey, no, I couldn't ask you to go out in this," she replies, indicating the rain with a jerk of her head. "It's my own fault for trying to take everything in one trip."

"Not a bother at all, Miss Catherine. 'Sides, you don't even got an umbrella."

Catherine accepts the help with a touch of embarrassment, chatting happily with Pete under his umbrella as they struggle their way to the employee parking lot with overflowing arms. Approaching her car, she realizes she hadn't thought about how she was going to get the massive cake home in that tiny thing and it's too late to dump it now. She and Pete settle for laying the heavy cardboard platter across the backseat. Catherine appreciates the staff's gesture with the farewell party, but it's a shame that most of the cake will go to waste. It's not like she can share it with her dog. Well, not _too_ much, anyway, she thinks with a smile that crinkles her nose.

"Really gonna miss ya," Pete says in his bashful way, one of the many things that endears him to Catherine. He stands back, having arranged her things with some effort in the cramped car, and rubs his neck. "I mean, me and the guys couldn't be happier for ya. Bolingbroke's a hell of a promotion, 'specially for someone your age."

Catherine smiles warmly at the man she's come to think of as a friend during their years of break-room lunches and night-shift chats. Pete's right; Supervisor of Corrections Officers at the state prison _is _a hell of a promotion, with a hell of a raise to match, but she couldn't have been more ambivalent. When the warden announced it at this month's staff meeting, so that Catherine couldn't refuse, he'd looked almost smug as the barrage of slaps on the back and congratulations rained down on her.

She shakes her head at Pete, expression stern. "We've talked about this. They've been trying to get rid of me ever since that thing with Marlow. I have no trouble believing that the Bolingbroke is just the first opportunity they've had to look good doing it."

The 'thing' she was referring to involved a rather heated discussion between her and Warden Dalton several years ago in which she'd discovered that some guards were withholding an inmate's inhaler because they didn't like him and she'd promptly fired them. Not only had Dalton brought the guards back with restitution pay, he'd threatened to sack Catherine in front of her staff, completely eroding any begrudging respect they may have built up for her. Pete had gotten himself on the Corrections Board's shitlist that day too, as well as the bad side of many of the other prison guards, when he'd defended Catherine's actions. Their friendship had blossomed from that point, even as their standing among their co-workers had deteriorated.

"And we've talked about _this_," Pete countered, gesturing between them. "Your pessimism ain't doin' you no good, Cath. Just make the best of it and go make us proud at the state pen."

Catherine knows well that it's a losing battle, trying to convince Pete that her suspicions have ever been anything more than conspiracy theory. He refuses to believe that anyone could want to wrong her, despite his having been in law enforcement for way longer than she'd been alive. She figures it's some kind of generational difference, his unyielding deference to authority.

But Catherine knows better. Since that first standoff, she's spent a lot of time pissing off Warden Dalton and Co. by being a vocal advocate of treating the inmates more like people than dirt. Which, unsurprisingly, led to increased morale among the prisoners and a kind of mutual reverence between them and her; a few of them even asked her to write to them once she left.

Unsavory behavior toward Miss Catherine was not tolerated under any circumstances, a lesson that newbies often learned the hard way. (Prison is funny like that - justice is often much quicker out of court.) Not that she condoned any violence done in her honor - she'd been working with the prison psychologist to revamp the anger management unit when the promotion interrupted them.

Catherine shakes her head again, trying to dislodge the disappointment that's been clouding her typically sunny outlook on the future. She focuses on Pete instead, on the affectionate smile that's all laugh lines and crow's feet, one that she feels lucky to have been able to enjoy for as long as she has. It hits her how much she'll miss him always having her back when she's at Bolingbroke.

"I hope you know I won't die happy until I have another slice of Nan's raspberry pie, so save some for me, would ya?" she requests with a squeeze of Pete's hand. He beams at her.

"She'll be delighted to hear it. You know she'll fix one up and call you over for dinner soon as I tell her you said that."

"She'd better. Now get inside, looks like the rain is picking up."

With a tight hug and promises to keep in touch, Catherine pulls out of the gated Pershing Square lot for the last time and watches the barbed wire and guard towers grow smaller in her rear-view mirror with a mixture of gloom and relief. She decides then that, whatever awaits her at Bolingbroke, she'll keep doing what she does best - pissing off administration and disappointing her mother by making friends with convicts.

"Just so we're clear, this is not the time to act out your revenge fantasies for the LSPD," Lester's voice comes crackling in over the wireless earpiece connection they all share. "Bellic says this girl is very delicate and easily spooked. He was _very_ clear that she's not to be harmed."

"Oh, finally, something he _was _clear about," Michael scoffs, slipping his hands into his leather gloves. He steps into the car he'd arranged for and signals for the other two to do the same, and they do, but something is off. Normally, Trevor would be hooting and hollering, overjoyed at the prospect of chasing down a mark in that ridiculously big Sandking truck he's got, especially a mark who's employed by the San Andreas justice system. But when he climbed up into the truck, he just nodded at them and drove off at a reasonable speed with not a hint of enthusiasm.

The more Trevor is invested, the better their chance of getting this thing done - Michael just hopes Franklin's bellyaching isn't poisoning the well. Years of experience tells him immediately that that isn't true. Trevor's probably just coming down from something. There's no time now to worry about it anyhow. They need to get a move on - the mist is turning to full-on rain and Michael doesn't like the feeling in the pit of his stomach.

At the very least, the plan is simple. Intercept the girl on her way home from work in a way that doesn't attract too much attention, escort her to the oil derricks, and get her to cough up whatever it is this Bellic guy wants from her. Silver '98 Blista, careful driver, most likely to take the Elysian Fields Freeway on her way to the house she rents in El Burro. Using traffic cams, Lester would be able to pinpoint the girl's location easily. The cars they were using had to be legally sourced from Franklin's buddy Hao - the less heat on their tails, the better.

Michael laments the fact that they don't have enough time to do this as carefully as he would've liked. But this Bellic guy's tight deadline and lack of direction has forced their hand. They have less than 24 hours. It has to be now.

Madonna sings about taking a holiday on Non-Stop-Pop and Catherine nods along, as much to the beat as to the idea of packing up and going somewhere nice for a week or two. She's got a month and a half before she starts at Bolingbroke and a nice bonus - an incentive to transfer that she couldn't turn down - to spend between now and then. She should save it, she knows, but she needs something to lift her spirits. Las Venturas sounds great, or maybe she and Argus should go hiking in the Palomino Highlands, or-

Catherine is pulled from her daydreams of rolling hills and wildflowers by the black SUV creeping up on her tail, so close that she can't see its headlights.

It really isn't that surprising - one of the joys of living in Los Santos is sharing the road with all manner of entitled affluenzacs and other assorted nutjobs. It wasn't any better in Liberty City, come to think of it. She would've laughed along with everyone else at this pathetic drizzle if she were in Liberty, but it was more than enough rainfall to trigger hysteria in the drivers travelling the Los Santos freeways. With a sigh, Catherine switches to the right lane to let this particular jerk get around her, expecting them to go roaring past in a pointless show of machismo.

What she isn't anticipating is the overlarge vehicle darting into the tiny space between her and the little red sports car that had been behind her, squeezing in dangerously close. The guy that this maniac just cut off lays on the horn while Catherine stares into the rear-view mirror in disbelief.

The driver behind her looks not one bit remorseful - actually, he looks a little nervous. _Good way to get yourself killed, dude, _she thinks with a shake of her head. She's prepared to pay the tailgater no more attention, happy to return to this new idea of taking a vacation, blissfully unaware of how drastically the next few seconds are going to alter the course of her life.

The truck in front of her suddenly slows down tremendously, and there is no time to brake. Catherine instinctively signals left to avoid rear-ending this new idiot, only to find herself being stared down by the driver directly next to her. He's matching her speed perfectly and shouting something, bright blue eyes boring into her. The man behind her is watching him intently, and so is the one in front. For the split second that she sees him in his rear-view reflection, the man in front of her has a gleeful grin in his eyes that is anything but amiable.

Catherine's gut tells her that this is not just road rage. She gets the distinct feeling that time is running out.

She tears to the right, swerving around the still-slowing truck in front of her and gunning it up the shoulder. The screech of rubber and rending of metal and glass scream out behind her as she fishtails onto the nearest exit ramp. In the mirror, she sees that her narrow escape has combined badly with the slick roads - the SUV on her tail collided with the truck in front of her. All three cars she assumes to be part of the offensive have come to a dead stop. Traffic has immediately begun backing up behind them and a cacophony of horns and shouts fills the air, audible over the rain.

Her rear window is a blur, but when she looks back from the top of the ramp, she sees the SUV whip around three lanes of traffic and speed off in the opposite direction. The truck has pushed other frantic drivers aside with ease and is shooting down the shoulder right toward her. For one horrifying second she thinks it will climb the ramp, but it rumbles right under the overpass, its tailgate crumpled and hanging on by a hinge. She can't seem to find the third car and decides it's too dangerous to stop now. Catherine releases her iron grip on the steering wheel and dials emergency services with trembling fingers and shallow breaths.

There is a lot she needs to do now and little time to do it.


	2. Chapter 2

Franklin knew his wrist was sprained without having to look.

He'd sprained the same one as a teenager after a hard fall on the neighborhood basketball court and was familiar with that particular brand of nauseating pain. When the Rowan girl took off, he hadn't had time to brake, and when he rear-ended Trevor's truck, he'd instinctively put out his hands to protect himself. The airbag had punished him for that mistake.

Franklin runs a finger delicately across the surface of the splint and his wrist throbs mightily in response, leaving him briefly wondering whether he _should _have taken up the doc on those painkillers. But only briefly, because he'd watched his mother slowly kill herself with that shit and he had decided a long time ago that that particular vice ended with her. Some bud would surely take the edge off, if only he could just go home already. The raised voices of Franklin's companions are a faraway blur in his ears as he spins idly in Trevor's desk chair.

Immediately after the accident, Lester directed them to scatter before they called more attention to themselves. They agreed to meet back at the Unicorn to plan their next move once Franklin had gotten his wrist looked at. And, unsurprisingly, this little post-mission-failure meeting is turning out to be a lively one, but Franklin is a little too worn out to tune in. He hurts and he's frustrated and he's tired. He's never really regretted getting involved with Michael and Trevor - he doesn't regret it even now - but this shit is definitely turning out to be a bigger hassle than even he had anticipated.

Franklin is pulled from his thoughts when he becomes aware of Lester typing more and more furiously on his laptop over on the couch, muttering under his breath while Michael and Trevor bicker by the door.

Trevor has a finger in Michael's reddening face, and that vein that stands out when he's angry has made its appearance on his temple. "Well, if we had just kept going and chased her down like I _suggested, _we could all be yukkin' it up over some beers right now, but _you _, you soft-"

"Hold on. Hold on, hold on," Lester interrupts. "Guys. There's an APB out on Franklin's SUV, the burner."

That quiets them right down. They share bewildered glances and stand rooted to the spot.

"...What?"

"It's right here, in her name. She must've called it in right after it happened, while you guys were making the getaway," Lester explains. He turns the screen around so they can see the big blue and gold LSPD logo emblazoned at the top of the report. "There's even a description of Franklin and Michael, although it's vague enough to be just about any two thugs in South Central."

For the second time in as many days, the four men share a rare moment of stunned silence. Franklin sits forward, leaning his elbows on his knees, his leg beginning to bounce nervously. His stomach is souring. The urge to go home intensifies. "I told y'all. I _told _you. Somethin' ain't right here."

"When I pulled up beside her, she looked..._ scared _," Michael says as if in agreement, tone contemplative and eyes on the floor. "And then she reports it?"

"That's what I'm sayin', man," Franklin agrees immediately. "Either we got the wrong girl or this Bellic dude is lyin' about telling her the plan."

"Oh, no, it was definitely her," Michael replies, remembering her big green eyes all full of horror. The whole thing put a leaden ball in his gut that he couldn't define. He looks over at Trevor, whose mouth is hanging open in genuine astonishment, and shrugs. "You gotta admit, T, the kid has a point. It's pretty suspicious."

Trevor rolls his eyes and throws up his hands in exasperation. "Jesus fuck, do we need to stop and pick up some tampons for you girls on the way home? Who _cares _if she's expecting us, or isn't expecting us, or what the _fuck _ever?"

"Because I ain't havin' this chick's blood on my hands, dog," Franklin responds with a conviction that makes Trevor's eye twitch. "Tell me you'd be fine with bein' the reason someone ends up some fuckin' sheikh's sex slave. Tell me to my face."

Trevor knows immediately that he would not be fine with that. There are some lines that even he isn't willing to cross, and he hates that right now. He hates being made to second-guess himself. So he throws it back in their faces.

"What, because it's a pretty girl, you guys decide to grow a conscience all of a sudden? What the fuck is _that _about, huh?" Trevor barks, and now all three men are looking at him warily. He thinks he detects a hint of shame in their faces. "What, you think women can't be just as bad as us, worse even? You forgot this bitch is a cop? We should be all too fuckin' thrilled to help this Slav asshole put her to the fire. Her and her whole team of fascists."

"I ain't sayin' that," Franklin protests, but his voice is quiet.

"She's not a cop," Lester corrects dryly without looking up. "She oversees the corrections officers at Pershing. Has done since spring of '09. And that doesn't explain why Bellic wants her kept from the _mafia _."

"Oh, thank you _sooo _much for clearing that up for us, Professor Crest!" Trevor sneers, and Lester flips him off. "Pig, pig wrangler, what-fuckin'- _ever. _Look, we ain't getting paid to psychoanalyze this chick or her Russian friend, we're getting paid to catch her. So let's fucking _catch _her, and get fucking _paid _."

Lester pauses his incessant typing and studies the others over the silver rim of his glasses. "I'm shocked and displeased that I'm saying this, but I agree with Trevor here," he says, and Trevor thrusts out his arms in a _see? _gesture. "We can mull over the morality of it all we want while we're counting our money."

"We're getting off-topic here," Michael interjects wearily. He's been leaning against the wall, massaging his temples, but he pushes off and rolls his neck like he does when he means business. "Lester, let Bellic know about the APB. Maybe that'll kick his ass into gear and get the ball rolling towards that 'more information' he promised us."

"Done."

"T, F, we're in a holding pattern until Lest can figure out what the hell is going on. But we can't let her fall off the face of the earth. Gotta nab her before she gets outta Los Santos or we can kiss that money goodbye. God knows I'd skip town if I thought a bunch of maniacs were after me."

"Oh, I bet you would," Trevor purrs with that smile that's all teeth and no humor, but no one pays him any mind.

Franklin nods and stands to leave, beyond ready to sleep this bullshit off. Then something bleeps from Lester's laptop, and everyone is on pins and needles again. They watch him scoff then grumble at whatever he's seeing.

"Bellic, or whoever, they responded to my email already. The deadline is still firm. Whatever we're going to do, we need to do it quick if we want this nonsense over with."

Michael runs a hand through his hair and sighs through his nose. "Alright then, it's a go on plan B. Time to do a house call."

Then, Lester holds up a hand. "Actually, hold on, there's...there's something else here. Bellic has a message for her. Says it'll help. Wait, what the fuck is this…?"

Two days later, still nothing.

No sign of the Rowan girl and certainly no more guidance from Bellic, even though the "firm" 48 hour deadline has long passed. Trevor can feel the red mist descending as he jabs his phone screen, ending the thousandth useless phone call with Lester.

Lest can't get a ping on her cellphone and there's been no credit card activity. When Michael went to the Burro Heights address listed in the LSPD database (dressed as a meter reader, because of course he was), the little house was dark and empty. The girl's neighbors reported that her car hadn't moved since Wednesday evening, presumably since she got home from their run-in on the freeway. Bellic, that squirelly Slav fuck. He must have known that girl would put up a fight, why else would he be paying so much just to nab her?

Franklin's been eager to write this one off as a failure and move on, but pure curiosity and a healthy dose of raw fury at being outfoxed by a goddamn _cop _has Trevor keen to see it through. That means that it's greed (and maybe- no, definitely a dash of lust) motivating Michael, as fucking usual - he wouldn't be able to stand it if Trevor got the girl on his own and took home the extra cash.

Assuming there was anything left of the girl to _get _\- it had been almost a week, after all. The Parmesanos or whoever the fuck could have easily snatched her up by now, and god knows what they'd be doing to her.

And just what was the deal with Franklin and Michael's moping? So what, she'd looked scared? So what, Bellic might be lying about them running together? Franklin, he could understand. Franklin was green. But why had Townley finally decided to get all wishy-washy about doing things to people that they didn't want to have done to them? Trevor knew the answer to that question just by looking at her. Michael always was an insufferable hypocrite.

Trevor is delighted to discover that all hope was not lost, however. It's actually reluctant old Franklin who ends up finding her.

Following Wednesday's fuck-up, Franklin had apparently invented a story about a certain dark-haired, green-eyed woman that owed his cab depot a great deal of money - a story he casually told a few of his more trustworthy employees. He'd even shown them the picture.

This morning, one of the cabbies happened to mention to the manager that he'd just dropped off a woman who looked an awful lot like the little she-devil in the photo. He'd taken her to the Von Crastenburg Hotel in Richman.

"Frankie, you're a fucking genius!" Trevor cheers into the phone as he sits up on the couch and pulls on his boots. "Not such a stick in the mud after all, huh?"

Lester immediately gets to work accessing the security cameras in and around the hotel while the rest of the team scramble to initiate their hastily-altered plan. His voice comes in smug over the earpiece. "We're gonna do this, guys. Last night I had a dream I was on a beach in Belize drinking mai tais."

Screw mai tais and especially screw the beach. Trevor just wants to be downing a two-four and getting high as an astronaut in the comfort of his trailer.

Across town, Michael and Franklin hop into a white, windowless van, the kind seemingly manufactured for just such an operation, and take off for Richman. In his pocket, Michael carries a scrap of paper with the message that Lester had haphazardly translated from Serbian, the significance of which none of them could puzzle out.

Catherine steps out of the air-conditioned lobby of the Von Crastenburg hotel and into a wall of dry July heat.

She tugs on the leash and Argus stops sniffing the doorman to trot forward obediently, following Catherine across the sunset-painted street to Boulevard Del Perro. Every nerve ending is alight as she scans the faces of each passerby, one hand settled on the pepper spray in her purse. The hypervigilance is exhausting, and this unbearable heat wave only adds to the sluggishness, but she doesn't see any other option than to stay alert.

They found her once, they could find her again. Even with all her efforts at staying off the grid, any of these people could be them, or working with them. She's spent the last three nights tossing and turning in overpriced hotel beds while visions of black SUVs and piercing blue eyes invaded her dreams.

As expected, nothing came of the APB. Once the unwritten rule of 48 hours was up, Catherine's report had almost certainly been shuffled off to the overflowing LSPD filing cabinet known as the trash can. She'd be buying a one-way ticket to a psych eval if she tried to suggest that those reckless drivers had actually been plotting against her somehow, so she kept that theory to herself. The report had really been more of an attempt at scaring them off anyway, whoever they were.

And it seemed to be working, knock on wood. The real riddle now was why she was having to scare off anyone at all. Assuming she wasn't blowing the whole thing entirely out of proportion. Among the barrage of violent imaginings, the many heinous deeds that could be about to befall her if she slips up, are the constant questions. Replaying over and over of any sleight she may have committed against some well-connected inmates. Toying with the idea that there _was _no promotion, that Warden Dalton had simply wanted her out of the prison so that he didn't have to bother hiring a cleaning crew after he blew her head off right there in his office. That would certainly show her for defying him. And knowing how tightly he had the State Prison Authority wound around his finger, he wouldn't have even had to break a sweat covering it up. Now, that thought really _did _make her feel like she was thinking crazy.

Catherine has tried to do what her instincts and training have taught her about avoiding detection. Phone off, cash only, fake I.D., using cabs to get to a new hotel each night. Barring leaving the state, which she can't afford, she's done everything she could think of. And anyway, all of this is _over _preparing, if anything, right? If they were sloppy enough to let her get away, during rush hour no less, how enterprising could these crooks really be? Thus goes the cycle of panic and self-soothing that's swung her head around and around in tiresome circles for days.

They've walked half a mile before Catherine registers that they've strayed too far from the hotel and need to turn back. She can't even muster the energy to be mad at herself for letting it happen. As if to make up for it, Gus is extra alert today, which she attributes to the throngs of costumed folks attending the comic convention being held at the Von Crastenburg that very same weekend.

She's grateful for the chaos that makes it easier to go unnoticed, and for the comfort that having a fiercely loyal ex-police dog at her side provides. Gus can't seem to get comfortable, sniffing everywhere and needing convincing to let anyone in a costume pet him, so Catherine tries to focus all her nervous energy on getting him through the crowds without him stopping to investigate every vampire and ghoul they encounter.

There's no way to tell him that those aren't the monsters she's scared of.

"Bro, killer cosplay! _Bikini Bloodbath 4 _, right? I mean, it could use a little more blood splatter, but-"

"Beat it, kid," Trevor growls from behind the hockey mask.

"Whoaaa, excellent impression! Now say the line where-"

Trevor whips around and backs the loudmouthed nerd up against the concrete wall he'd been leaning on with a litany of violent threats. Luckily, it's enough to shut the kid up and send him speeding off in the opposite direction. Even then, the dumbass snaps pictures excitedly.

Trevor feels his blood pressure rising as he goes back to scanning the crowds. He's in position across from the hotel, nestled in the narrow space between two office buildings. Sweat rolls down his face into his jumpsuit and he's thirsty as hell. It's hard to breathe behind this stupid mask, but Lester figured the sloppy disguise would actually work in their favor with all this trekkie shit going on. So far, so wrong. He's going to wring Lester's fat neck.

Trevor checks the time. If she doesn't show soon, he's going to have to actually go into the hotel and finagle his way into her room, but that has to be a last resort. The occasional attention of the nerd herd is easy enough to shake off, but it won't do to have the staff on high alert.

As if on cue, an unmistakable figure emerges with some difficulty from the writhing hordes packing the sidewalks. Even though she's trying to hide behind her hat and sunglasses, Trevor recognizes Catherine immediately. Who wears red lipstick when they're trying to blend in?

Other men's eyes are glued to various parts of the woman's anatomy as she walks past with a dainty black leash in her hand. It's attached to a big white dog, which she struggles briefly to keep from trotting over to sniff Trevor. He hadn't counted on the dog, but that will be easy enough to take care of.

Trevor hangs back for a moment, watching the black lines up the backs of Catherine's stockings shift against her calves as she retreats toward the hotel. He sees that his suspicions were right on - the woman is absolutely covered in tattoos from the collarbones down, stem to stern. _What a waste of skin _, he thinks, and wonders whether pigs make good leather jackets. She peeks over her shoulder once or twice, but once she no longer seems concerned with him, Trevor licks his dry lips and begins to follow her at a distance. His brain supplies the familiar burst of adrenaline to his limbs and heart that he's surely addicted to by now.

"Bingo," he breathes over the earpiece. "Eyes on the target."

Michael sits up with a start from where he's been dozing in the driver's seat of the getaway van. Franklin looks over at him from the passenger seat, busying himself with his phone.

"You good, man? You hear that?"

"Yeah, I got it," Michael replies, shifting the van into drive. Both men slip on their ski masks. "Headed your way, T."

"Would like to state for the record that target has an _excellent _ass."

"Focus, T," Lester warns from his position miles away, eyes darting between his many desktop screens. "Be ready to pull back if any more fanboys mistake you for a horror movie villain."

"Pull back, my _ass _," Trevor snaps. "We're doing this. To. Fucking. Day."

Lester watches with bated breath as Trevor stalks the girl down a fairly deserted side street. The grainy black-and-white security camera feed makes it all kind of eerie. Definitely more _Bikini Bloodbath 2 _than _4 _. Michael speaks up over the headset.

"T, I need a location here."

"Calm down, sugartits, I'm working on it. Alley coming up on the left, no one around. Gonna try to box her in there."

Trevor picks up the pace, knowing this is probably his only shot. In just a couple blocks, they'll emerge onto the crowded main street and it'll be too late. He is _not _going to be the one to screw this up. Soon enough, he'll be back in Sandy Shores happily forgetting that Bellic prick and his elusive lady friend. As long as Bellic comes through with the money, which is-

Without warning, Catherine stops and turns to look directly at him. The knowing dread in her eyes makes Trevor falter and for a moment he simply stares back. But just for a moment.

Trevor and his target spring into action simultaneously, her and the dog darting down the L-shaped alley with surprising speed and him tearing off after her, drawing his pistol out of habit and shouting into the earpiece for Michael to cut her off from the other end.

When she sees the van pull in, Catherine loses her footing and topples to the concrete, landing hard on her hip. She twists around to see the towering man bearing down on her. Her mind is blank, spiraling with primal fear.

"_ Argus _!" she shrieks, and the white shepherd is on her attacker in the blink of an eye, snarling furiously. Catherine hears Gus' victim bellow in pain, but her attention is on the two other figures now emerging from the windowless van that blocks the alley. She sees fierce blue eyes behind one of their masks and in that moment every nightmare becomes real.

"Catherine Rowan?" one of them asks, coming toward her slowly with his hands open to show he's unarmed.

"_ Call off the fucking dog! _" the stalker roars from behind her. " _Call it off or I'll fucking shoot it! _"

Catherine can only swallow thickly.

"We work for Niko Bellic," the blue-eyed man says, voice a little more urgent now. He sees her seize up and the color drain from her cheeks, and he wonders for a second if Franklin was right. That wasn't the 'thank god' relief he'd expected. "We just want to talk. Could you please?" He gestures behind Catherine, where the third man is balanced precariously up on an air-conditioning unit, one leg dangling off but still just out of Gus' reach.

Catherine issues the command hesitantly and the dog instantly drops to the ground, whining and barking anxiously. Michael and Franklin pull the quivering woman off the ground and bundle her into the back of the van with miraculously minimal struggle. Franklin has the foresight to scoop up the purse she'd dropped and rushes back to his seat, motioning violently for Trevor to get in. He clambers off the AC and follows the still-barking dog to the van, grumbling.

When he tries to force the dog out, Catherine pleads with Trevor to let it stay. Desperate to just fucking go already, he relents with a groan and slams the back doors closed.

The van careens out of the alley, narrowly avoiding oncoming traffic, and heads for the scrapyard overlooking the oil derricks. The whole thing couldn't have taken longer than four minutes, but they all would have agreed that it felt like an eternity. Michael guns it due east and the van explodes with noise.

"Why didn't your cabbie friend warn us about the fucking _attack dog _?" Trevor shouts at Franklin, which starts an argument that Catherine can barely hear over the throbbing of blood in her ears. She begs herself to stay in control and try to think her way out of this, focusing on the feeling of the hard floor against her butt and the wall at her back. They found her, oh _god _, they actually found her, and she'd been so careful. She wasn't crazy. She wasn't being paranoid.

When she finally feels composed enough to look up, Catherine sees that the man sitting on the wheel well across from her has removed his mask. The triumphant smirk on Trevor's lips and burning anger in his eyes shoot a bolt of fear clean through her gut. He grips his injured hand so tightly at his side that the knuckles are paper-white, and hearty rivulets of blood run down his fingers to collect on the floor. A good deal of blood has already soaked into the sleeve of his grey boiler jumpsuit. Catherine can't stop staring at it.

"You've caused me a lot more than a hundred and fifty grand's worth of trouble, sweet pea," Trevor growls, still out of breath, and Catherine's gaze snaps to him. "But you're gonna make it alllll up to me by playin' ball now, arent'cha?"

Instead of the meek little nod or whimper Trevor expects, _wants _after all this struggle, his words seem to stir something in her and he gets a wild-eyed hellion in response.

"Good thing you'll be getting all that money, then, because you owe me a hundred for the shoes and another hundred for the dress," Catherine says with what Trevor feels is undue smugness given the circumstances, and he experiences the rare sensation of wanting to hit a woman. Franklin looks down and sees that the girl has indeed lost a high heel in the scuffle. Her green dress and stockings are torn and soiled with god-knows-what from her fall.

"Oh, and don't forget the cleaning bill from all the cake that flew all over my car when you maniacs tried to run me off the road."

"That _ain't _our fault," Trevor says through his teeth. "If your friend had kept up his end of the bargain, I wouldn't be bleeding all over the back of this shitty van."

Michael knows he needs to de-escalate this, or Trevor is bound to do something stupid. His eyes flick up to the mirror and catch Catherine's.

"Do you know why we came, Ms. Rowan?"

"I could give a shit," she shoots back. "You must know _some _thing about me if you were this committed to finding me, you must know I don't have money."

"Ahhhh, yes, but of course _you _know that's not what we want," Trevor says in as menacing a tone as he can muster while starting to feel lightheaded. The pain makes him angry, and he makes to move closer in an effort to intimidate, but backs off slightly when Gus bares his teeth. Franklin has to stifle a laugh.

Catherine calms the dog by stroking his head and looks away, chewing a red-painted lip and trying to think quickly. Her mind keeps getting stuck on the mention of Niko's name and the fact that he's apparently alive and desperately trying to figure out just what the everloving fuck he has to do with all this.

"Ever since Wednesday, I've tried to think of every single possibility, and honestly I'm at a loss," she admits after a moment. "I was trying to think of an inmate who'd want this done to me, but now…" She pauses, looking between the two whose faces she could see, searching them. "Now I'm wondering if you aren't going to try to use me to get to someone in Pershing or on the Prison Authority. God knows they've got enough blood on their hands."

"So you're denying that you know Bellic, then?"

Yes, she decides, she probably should.

"Who? I don't-"

"This might jog your memory, then." Michael hands Franklin the slip of paper from his breast pocket. All three men watch intently as Catherine unfolds and immediately crushes it in a trembling fist, eyes wide.

_Срећн о, лекар. _

_ -NB _

_Srećno, lekar. _

_Good luck, doctor _.

_Fuck you, Niko Bellic _, Catherine thinks bitterly, pitching the paper to the floor and covering her face with her hands. In that moment she hates Niko as fiercely as do the three dumbfounded criminals who are watching her fight back tears like her life depends on it in the back of the speeding van.

In an abandoned old warehouse on El Rancho, Sal "The Snake" La Biscia is thrashing on the cold concrete floor, gasping for air and clinging fruitlessly to the single thread that constitutes the end of his mortal coil.

The others stand around him, some gaping, some looking on, all uneasy.

"Anyone else got anything to fucking say?" rasps the tiny redhead at the center of the circle. Her cigarette and her .45 send up plumes of smoke to collect like a stormcloud over their heads. "Anyone else wanna give me a reason? Huh? Didn't _god _damn think so."

She spits on the still-shuddering corpse and looks each member of the small group in the eye before disappearing into the office way back in the corner.

And that's the end of Sal "The Snake" La Biscia. He's buried in the same pit as the man he killed not two hours earlier.

The others had warned Sal about Angie Pegorino's infamous temper. They'd warned him about what she would do to him once she found out he'd killed their only source of information in Los Santos, all because Sal thought the guy had looked at him funny. But Sal was young and dumb and now he was dead.

Later, Rafaele and Luca, Angie Pegorino's second and third in command respectively, stand out back of the warehouse in the humid twilight having a smoke and a laugh about how Sal's head had gone all _musciada _on Marco's expensive new shoes.

"Hey, uh, Raf," Luca says in a suddenly hushed voice, shuffling a little closer to the other man awkwardly. He peers around before continuing. "Uh, you don't think...if, if we can't find this Rowan broad…" And he gestures being shot in the head.

Raf blows out a cloud of smoke and looks up at the darkening starless sky. "I dunno, I ain't been runnin' wit' the Pegorinos too much longer than you. All's I can say is, Mrs. P wouldn't be too thrilled about it, no."

This doesn't quell Luca's fears any, but he only got bumped up to third in command just recently and he isn't going to let that go to waste by pussing out now.

"You got nothin' to worry about, though. We got enough outta the guy before Sal capped 'im. This Assistant Warden guy, what's-his-name, Daniels. I got a pair-a pliers wit' his name on 'em."

Raf stomps out his cigarette and waits for Luca to take his last pull and do the same. He starts for the door and says over his shoulder, "C'mon. Sooner we take care of Bellic, sooner we get back to Liberty. Sooner we get back to doin' _real _work."

Luca knows what he meant - racketeering, forgery, the type of stuff one typically associates with working for a mob family. Luca himself had been promised a nice little slice of the drug-smuggling garbage disposal front if they got this right. The work that Angie Pegorino had _said _they were gonna be doing when they both got hired. The work they actually had some idea how to do. Not this mission for revenge bullshit they've spent the last few years slaving away for. And if Sal had popped that guy just a few moments sooner, they wouldn't have _any_thing to go on now and he and Raf would be joining him in that pit.

Rafaele has already gone inside but Luca hangs back, craning his neck toward a high open window, through which Mrs. Pegorino's and Mr. Bell's argument can be heard. Enough already, Ang, he's saying. Forget the girl. Forget Bellic. This stupid vendetta ain't worth plugging half our guys over, not if we wanna have any kind of operation left when we get home. And, correct me if I'm wrong, but I seem to recall you saying you didn't even _love _Jimmy any-

Shut the fuck up, Phil, she's barking back. Doesn't loyalty mean anything in this century, in this country? Honor? Respect? You swore a vow to my husband, and so on and so forth.

Luca has lost interest and followed Rafael inside because it's the same shit that all of them have heard at least a dozen times since they got to this god-forsaken city. Being forced to share close quarters with the boss and her...partner?...has allowed them to witness the fruits of their labor beginning to wither on the vine. Not quite rotting, but well on the way. All that time, all that effort, all that money, and now Sal's fuck-up had nearly cost them everything, cost _Luca _everything.

And if they _keep _fucking up, if Angie's steadily worsening habit of acting on her angry impulses is anything to go by, they don't have much more time left on this earth than Bellic does. But Luca doesn't think about that; he told the girl he's screwing tonight to call him _capitano _and he likes the way that sounds too much to give in to doubt.


End file.
